I'm Not Okay
by Last Haven
Summary: Kinkmeme deanon. Their relationship still in its infancy, America wants to try mixing things up with Russia. Things don't go to plan. At all. When an uncomfortable truth comes out, how will either of them react? RusAme


**Notes: Written for the kinkmeme. Original request was: **"Nations A and B are in an established but still relatively new relationship, where everything is wonderful- apart from the sex. One of them _always_ tops, and while the other doesn't _mind_bottoming, they don't want to do it all the time.

So they have a talk about it (or it is revealed through other means, up to you), and it turns out the last time A bottomed was in a non-con situation, and bottoming has become one of their triggers.

Up to A!A what the eventual outcome is- does B accept that they'll end up bottoming all the time? Do they try and work toward A being able to bottom? They can even split up if you don't think they'll be able to get past it.

If the rapist is another nation, I'm completely fine with that. Make it whoever you want." **I went with the choice of RusAme. This is the first time I've ever written this pairing, tell me if you think I got it wrong?**

**Warning(s): trigger interrupting failed sex (does that have an _actual_ name/kink?), mentions of past non-con**

**The actual title to the fic is "I'm (Not) Okay"; ffnet, why can't you ever leave my formatting alone?**

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><p>It wasn't like America <em>minded<em> bottoming; hell, he loved it. Hollywood might have influenced him just a little too much because there was nothing better than having the spotlight on him, so sex with him being the focus of his lover suited him fine. He loved the reverent touches, teasing lips, and he even liked the manhandling Russia put him through as he moved over and in him. Okay, so he _really_ enjoyed the manhandling. It was fun and America enjoyed getting lost in bliss while his partner ravished his attention on him.

But America also had an admittedly short attention span and doing the same position got boring fast. So they tried different positions and damn if those weren't fantastic too. But still, one thing didn't change and that was America was _still_ on the receiving end. There was only so much that he could continue to take; he loved Russia, but the man wouldn't even talk about it and America was starting to get annoyed.

He did love Russia, honestly, really, completely, and heaven only knew how long they chased each other in circles before they finally manned up and admitted they wanted to be together. It was just, you know, would have been fun to one) switch things up, and two)—and damn him, maybe Hollywood really was infecting him more with a sense of romanticism—be the one doing those nice things to Russia.

It was fun making Russia flustered—like when he surprised him by taking him on a visit to one of his houses out in the country where sunflowers bloomed in fields that stretched for acres. Or that time he "kidnapped" Russia—is it kidnapping if the kidnapped really wants to go?—for a week off from work when he realized how exhausted the northern nation was getting. Or when he got Russia's favorite recipe off Lithuania and finished just in time to surprise his boyfriend, even if it did wreck his kitchen. It gave him the "warm fuzzies" to see Russia so happy and flustered like that, so why shouldn't he be allowed to do that in the bedroom as well?

Not that Russia wanted to answer him; it took two weeks of harebrained and growingly desperate attempts to pin his boyfriend down before America could talk to him about it. In the end, America thought it went well when Russia, looking adorably bashful as he stared at the toes of his boots (not that America would have told him that unless he wanted one of those boots up his ass, and really that defeated the whole idea) and murmured "okay".

America _thought _it had gone well.

But this, this situation right here? This was _so_ not okay, it wasn't even funny.

"Whoa, whoa, babe," he yelped when Russia made another terrified whimper—God, that was fucking weird too, like Belarus you-stole-my-brother-I'll-fucking-kill-you-with-this-rusty-butcher-knife weird—as he did his best to squirm away from America.

Knowing enough about cornered people and Russia's mean right hook, America pulled out of his boyfriend and scrambled back to give him space. Not that it seemed to help Russia much; he pressed his back up flat against the headboard, still gasping for breath, hands flailing about, perhaps looking for his trusty pipe.

"Russia—man—it's okay," he tried, reaching out for him. Russia's eyes merely widened and he pressed himself further back, his feet struggling for a grip as the sheets pulled and bunched beneath his soles. America entertained the thought of catching Russia's wrists to try to tug him closer for a hug but realized just as quickly how stupid that was since Russia only probably would have walloped him over the head for it. Instead he kept his hands up where Russia could see him, trying to show that he didn't have any weapon to attack him with as he scooted a little closer and cooed soothingly. "It's okay, whatever's wrong, it's over now—you're okay, sweetheart. We've stopped. See? You're okay, you're not hurt. Shh, you're okay."

Gradually, Russia's breathing slowed and he eased back down onto the bed in a slump. America kept cooing and comforting until at last Russia began to tremblingly edge his way back to him.

"You're okay, babe. We've stopped, so you don't have to worry now, okay? Russia? You're okay. Shh," he murmured, hands still outstretched, reaching out to stroke and pet Russia's hair as he inched closer. "No one's hurting you, love, see?"

To his surprise, Russia nodded. He warily braced his hands against America's knees and scooted up until his chest was pressed against America's knees while his bowed head rested against America's chest. Slowly, America eased his arms around Russia's tense shoulders, pausing each time Russia would seize until he relaxed again and America could dare to move. Beneath his fingers and palms every nerve beneath that pale skin seemed to tense and jump as Russia trembled.

He pressed a kiss to the back of Russia's neck and when he wasn't shrugged off he began to pepper his boyfriend's neck, shoulders, and hair with kisses. Excruciatingly slow, Russia's body started to go limp.

Finally, Russia just collapsed against America, clinging to his knees like they were a lifeline. America paused to study his lover, worry prickling at his senses—Russia did not cling. He liked a good hug and while he wasn't amused by unannounced tackles when America reached out for him, Russia wouldn't refuse him. But this? This was strange. He returned to petting Russia's hair as he carefully eased Russia back off him so he could move his legs and pull him into a proper embrace.

Russia was a big guy, but he settled into America's lap after a moment, pressing his face into America's shoulder while America rubbed his back and murmured what he hoped was soothing sounds.

"Are you okay now, sweetheart?" he asked again, rubbing little circles into the small of Russia's back.

Taking a steadying breath, Russia nodded. "Da, vse horosho," he panted before switching to the language all nations understood. "I'm…okay."

"Good," he sighed, relief washing away most of his worries. All except one. "What happened, man? Did I hurt you?"

Russia shook his head, not pulling away from America's shoulder. America waited as he started and then stopped speaking, but after several tries he finally managed an answer. "No, you didn't hurt me." The fact that he didn't add a teasing barb at the end, not even a 'not that you could if you tried', brought back America's worries.

"Alright," the darker blond began, tugging Russia back and lifting his chin so he could press their foreheads together. Russia's cheeks were bright red, which was usually endearing but not helping in the slightest at the moment, and he refused to raise his eyes. After a moment, he turned his head and pressed his burning cheek to America's, once again hiding his face. America sighed. "You're sure you're okay?"

"I am fine," Russia insisted, this time with a firm tone, a hint of a growl rumbling beneath the words.

America was unimpressed, seeing as he could barely even meet America's eyes at the moment. Still, he pressed a kiss to Russia's cheek like a silent apology. "Fine then, you're alright. What _happened?_ You just freaked out on me."

Russia tensed and for a moment America was sure he was about to get belted across the face anyway, but then his body went limp again, like he forced it to relax. "Nothing happened."

_People say I'm the immature one in this relationship,_ he thought mirthlessly as he pulled his boyfriend back so he could look him in the face. The paler haired man still refused to meet his gaze. "Russia, I know you like to call me a fool, but please don't try to take me for one."

_"Nothing happened,"_ Russia repeated, but there was no bite in his words.

_Compromise, America;_ that was what Canada had told him a months ago, back at the beginning of his and Russia's relationship, back when reality set in and he realized he was now dating the man he'd loved for years and who used to send him into fits of paranoia. He'd gone running to his brother, the only one he was certain wouldn't look at him like he was crazy if he told him he was dating Russia. Compromise, he said, because with two personalities as assertive as theirs could be, they were going to have to learn to give some instead of taking all.

_Compromise_, he thought, his thumb still idly tracing circles into Russia's side. Well, compromise it was. He shrugged and wriggled out from underneath his boyfriend, crawling towards the head of the bed and slipping under the covers. "Let's just go to bed then," he said, closing his eyes and telling that insistent little voice in his head begging for an answer to just shut up.

"…you don't want to continue?"

America glanced back down to his boyfriend, who still sat of the foot of the bed, curled slightly in on himself like he was sulking. Of course Russia would want to continue even if he hit an obvious trigger; that was just par for the course with him. As America shut his eyes, he wondered if that was what had actually happened. But what triggered him? Had America done something or was it just a fluke? "Never mind that. Let's go to bed."

For a moment, America worried that Russia would just get up and leave and who knew when he would see him again. But after Russia climbed off the bed, America felt the bed dip back down as Russia joined him under the covers. With terribly faked casualness, America stretched out his arm against the bed, but not only did Russia take the hand, he wriggled over until he could bury his face back into America's neck. _Well, at least we aren't fighting._

Curiosity gnawing at his brain, America forced himself to not pry and to try to get some sleep. It felt like ages before he finally slipped away from the waking world, but all too soon he found himself being shaken awake.

He opened his eyes blearily and then frowned in confusion when he realized the room was still dim. Why would he wake up before dawn eluded him until he felt the shaking again and realized it was Russia, gently shaking him by his shoulders. Usually, if Russia really wanted him awake he would just dump him over the side of the bed with a highly amused smile on his face as he peered over the side at him. He almost dismissed the movement as violent tremors and moved to rub his boyfriend's back soothingly again, but then he heard Russia's voice, quiet and insistent. "America…America!"

Frowning, America peeled his tongue off the roof of his mouth and tried to ignore how thick and sluggish it felt as he woke up more. "What… Russia, what? What's wrong?"

Russia paused and raised his head a little so his mouth was pressed up against America's ear. "I do not like receiving."

Sleep addled, America stared into the darkness. "…presents?"

Russia didn't even snort at him. "I do not like…being on bottom."

_What?_ America rolled the idea around for a moment before it finally sunk in. "Oh! …is that why you frea—um, wanted to stop?"

He nodded against America's head, disturbing his hair and making his scalp tickle. "I don't like it. At all. Can we not do that again?"

Pausing, America thought back to earlier—Russia, wide eyed and terrified, a side America had never seen before, scrambling for safety and something to defend himself. And then sagging against America, desperate and trembling, too embarrassed to even look America in the eyes. America thought of the misery in that face, the sullen prickliness of that hurt tone, and then the clinginess as they fell asleep.

America decided that he never wanted to see that again if he could help it. "If that's what you want, then it's alright with me."

Russia sagged against him again, his entire body that he had pressed up to America while he slept going as limp as a ragdoll. With relief like that, Russia probably could have tasted it. Feeling a little ashamed to have even put his boyfriend into such a state, America rubbed wide circles across his shoulder blades and kissed whatever bit of him he could reach. "Yes, I would like that. I don't want to do that again."

"Can I ask one thing?" America began, thinking _Compromise._ He gave and now it was his turn to take a little back; hopefully Russia wouldn't hate him for trying.

Tension started to build up again in the larger man's body; America kept rubbing his back and pressed more kisses against his skin. "Yes?"

"Why did that happen?"

His body didn't quite tense up. Instead he curled up around America more, like he was trying to hide against his lover's body. "Bad memories. I started remembering… bad things."

"Bad things?"

"Yes…" he trailed off quietly, face resting limply against America's neck. "I wasn't… always very strong once. I got bullied, beaten, conquered…" He paused and America felt a shiver race up Russia's spine beneath his fingertips. "Once, one of them, one of those conquers… he wanted to make sure I wouldn't forget that he beat me. So, he held me down and… I wasn't strong enough to stop him." He stopped again, his voice so soft America almost didn't hear him over the roaring of blood in his ears. "It was a long time ago, but sometimes memories have ways of staying very clear in our heads even if we don't want them to, da?"

_Fucking hell,_ was America's first thought followed closely by _why did I even ask in the first place?_ His stomach twisted and he fought the prickling of guilty, empathetic tears. Without thinking, he pulled Russia closer to him still, tossing one leg over his lover's until they were so close together America was certain he could practically feel landmasses trying to stretch out across the sea to one another. And yet, it still wasn't enough; for the first time, America wished he was much bigger, or that Russia was smaller, small (or big) enough that he could press his lover deep inside, away from all could hurt him, from bad memories, and more importantly of "bad things". It was silly and Russia probably would have been insulted if America mentioned that wish, but all the same America's hero complex kicked in so strong that he wished he could reach back through time and fix all the ills that ever befell his lover.

Whether Russia had a clue what America was thinking, all he did was sink as deeply into that embrace as he could, curling flush against America. They remained like that until they both fell asleep, Alfred fitfully.

When dawn came, morning sun splashing across Alfred's face, he found himself suddenly awake. He watched dust motes dance in the sunlight, trying to shove away the nightmares that had plagued him all night. Next to him, Russia had untangled himself to hide beneath the covers where the sun couldn't reach him. The only part of him left visible was the crown of his head; gazing down at it, America sighed. God, this was going to be an awkward morning—what the hell do you say after one night of everything going horribly wrong? At a loss and forcing himself not to think about it, he pressed a light kiss to the hair peeking out from the covers and carefully slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb the other occupant. Snatching up a pair of sweat pants that he pulled on as he staggered from the room, he headed down to the kitchen.

Alfred wasn't one for routines usually—he loved spontaneity and surprises—but he made an exception when it came to breakfast. Since his doctors started harping on how important breakfast was and how he really needed to stop skipping it, he found the process of making it soothing. First up, the coffee. Last month he went on a trip to Hawai'i and returned with a renewed craving for Hawaiian blends, which meant that it was a new favorite among his citizens which meant that it quickly popped up in every coffee shop and on the supermarket shelves. Russia hadn't seemed to have minded it when he tried it yesterday, so America just refilled the coffee machine and started it up.

Next, the actual food. He paused; with Russia here, he needed to make food for him too, and he enjoyed a decent sized breakfast. Drumming his fingers against the countertop, America frowned at his kitchen, trying to think of something. The last time America tried to make one of Russia's recipes… well, utter disaster might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. Which reminded America that he still needed to repaint the ceiling in his house in Virginia—scorch marks degraded property value.

Hoping for inspiration, he checked the fridge, poking around and shifting things while he searched. He pulled out the egg carton, thinking of omelets, when he spotted the pound of deli sliced ham he'd bought earlier in the week and then promptly forgot about. _Sandwiches! Russia likes sandwiches. Easy to make, nice, simple sandwiches._

After pulling out the ham and bread, along with all the other toppings he wanted to put on, Alfred fell into an even more soothing routine. Dig out two slices of bread, slap some mayo on one side, load it up, put the other slice of bread on. He repeated the motion until he found his mind wandering.

Whether he wanted to think about it or not, he was going to have to talk to Russia. But what the hell could he say? He hadn't lied last night—if Russia didn't want to bottom, he wasn't going to force the issue. Not when he had a damn good reason not to. (Somewhere in the darker recesses of America's mind, a boiling hatred for whoever hurt him reared its furious head. Blind hate, however, wasn't something the optimist could hold on for long and he settled into a morose state.)

Russia would be waking up soon, America knew. He only had a little bit of time to figure out how he was going to act around his boyfriend. Should they try to talk about it again, or would it just be best to let it go? Would Russia get angry if they did talk, or would he get upset with America trying to pretend it never happened?

So engrossed in his thoughts, he stopped paying attention to what his hands were doing. It wasn't until he faintly heard footsteps coming towards the kitchen that he looked up, old paranoid tendencies always keeping him alert. For a moment, the footfalls were so soft he thought it was Tony before he remembered the alien was still in the Virginia house, preferring to keep the whale company. He looked up in time to see Russia slowly amble in, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Realizing he still hadn't decided what he was going to say, he latched onto the first thing that came to mind. "Good morning! Did you sleep well?"

Russia blinked blearily at him and America realized how stupid that question was. After a night like last night, who could sleep well? Russia, apparently, was too tired to answer and instead shrugged. "Morning." He paused, glancing slightly past America. "That is a lot of sandwiches, America. You don't plan that we'll eat all of them for breakfast, do you?"

America blinked in confusion before turning his head back around. The first word from his lips was "whoa!" the second was "whoops". Before him was a small mountain of sandwiches, stacked up in the middle of the counter like a pyramid—America would have been impressed by his own unconscious flair if he hadn't just made enough sandwiches to eat for the next three meals. "Um," he began, cocking his head to the side as he tried to find some explanation that wouldn't include the fact he'd been fretting about the other man all that time. "I was planning for later—I'll wrap them up and put them in the fridge so they don't go bad."

Russia nodded thoughtfully before wandering over and dropping his head against America's shoulder, catching the shorter man by surprise. "Supper?"

"Um. Yeah, if you want," America answered, glancing between his lover and the pile of sandwiches while Russia looped his arms around America's waist. _Well,_ he thought, the tension slowing easing out of his shoulders where Russia's breath tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. _This could be a lot worse._ He paused to smile. _I think we might be good._

Optimism restored, America returned his attention to the food before he realized that used all but a few slices of the meat, a good deal of the variety of toppings, and nearly a loaf and a half of bread. Whoops indeed.

"I hope you _really_ like sandwiches," America snorted, mostly at how far he really gotten carried away with the food, and reached out to start putting things back in order.

Russia shrugged. "Where have you put your ashtrays?"

America paused, his hand stalling momentarily as he twisted the cap of the mayonnaise back on. "…second cupboard, above the sink to the right. Bottom shelf. Might have gotten stuffed towards the back." Russia let go and walked over to the specified cupboard, digging around until he found the old, battered collection of ashtrays America used to keep. During the Cold War, he'd smoked like a chimney, but he'd forced himself to cut back and to smoke only outside. He had thought Russia had done the same.

"Smoke outside, da?"

America blinked as Russia wandered past him, heading to the sliding door and the porch beyond. "Um, yeah." He watched as his boyfriend unlocked then pried the door open before he found his voice again. "Hey, don't you want breakfast?"

Russia paused to shake his head, not looking back over his shoulder as he slipped outside. "Not now, please," he answered before he shut the door.

Stunned, America listened and then watched through the window above the sink as his lover went and sat on the porch swing, placing the ashtray on the small coffee table America had tossed out there before digging out a squashed pack of cigarettes from his pocket and then lighting one up. Distantly, America felt his brain trying to pick itself back up.

Russia had said no to breakfast. Russia had said he didn't want it.

Russia.

Who on many occasions said that breakfast was the most important meal of the day before literally kicking America out of bed to get him to eat.

_Ah shit, we are so not good._ He watched Russia breathe out a slow snaking wisp of smoke, letting it curl up around his face before a breeze blew the smoke away. The paler haired man's expression was too vague to read, a challenge for anyone to decipher and impossible task for America. At a loss, America sighed in frustration—wasn't communicating and understanding supposed to get easier after you get into a relationship? Watching the delicate smoke and the flickering glow from the end of the cigarette, America felt a craving for a cigarette of his own.

_Fuck it, why not?_ He finished putting the ingredients away, tossed a few dishtowels hastily over the pyramid of sandwiches to keep the flies away, and then stalked off to his office. The last time he tried to quit, he stashed every pack of cigarettes he had into one of the desk drawers he never used (he had a unique filing system—every paper was placed in a stack of similar papers around his office, and America had yet to misplace one. Usually anyone who saw his filing system was at first shocked or horrified, but then begrudgingly impressed when he produced every paper he ever needed). Squared away in the back, hidden from prying eyes or curious hands, America unearthed a fresh pack.

Cigarettes in hand, he returned to the kitchen and then headed out to the porch, pausing only before he stepped out completely. Russia was gazing out to America's backyard; either he hadn't noticed him or he was ignoring him. America wasn't sure what would be worst at the moment. Just in case he hadn't noticed, America raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the frame of the door.

Russia turned to him, smile affixed to his face. It wasn't a true smile; instead it was the almost polite, but never quite appropriate smile that he gave most people. America hadn't seen it pointed at him since their last argument. Now he was certain Russia was ignoring him. Still, he'd already announced his presence and he never accepted defeat easily. "Mind company?"

The smile changed; it shrunk slightly, turning in on itself as he glanced downward, the angles of his face changing from politely inappropriate to something genuine at least. Shyer, perhaps. "If I did, I would already be gone."

Well, that actually _was_ encouraging; America smiled and walked over, forcing his body to stay relaxed as he neared his lover and the swing. Still, despite himself, he slung himself over onto the far end of the swing and distracted himself with opening the pack. By the time he finally freed a cigarette, Russia had already flicked the lighter open and lit the flame, one hand cupped about to shield it from the light breeze. Leaning in, the heat of the flame tickled his nose but the warmth of Russia's fingertip sliding across his cheek sent shivers down his back. He smiled when he leaned back, but Russia was looking away again as he tossed the lighter back to the battered table.

Silence settled on them again, muffling America's thoughts as he took a drag on his smoke. He had come out here on a whim, and now he couldn't think of a thing to say. So, he sat, feeling oddly like the Cold War had returned. He made his move, and now he had to wait for Russia to make his; it was a carefully balanced routine, like the push and pull of the tides. How they managed to keep a balance and not annihilate the planet still escaped America, but if they did it once, they could do it again.

To his surprise, Russia only waited until he stubbed his cigarette out before making said move; first, he lit up another cigarette and dropped the lighter back onto the table, but instead of pulling his hand back, he snatched up the ashtray. America watched in transfixed curiosity as Russia placed it by the blue eyed man's leg. When America tried to open his mouth to ask why he had moved it, Russia moved again. Careful not to drop his cigarette or any ash, he scooted a little closer to America and shifted, sliding carefully down until America had to move his left arm because Russia's head took its place on America's leg.

This was new.

Their relationship was only a few months old, a fledging relationship really, but America couldn't recall either of them ever laying their head down on the other's lap outside of a few stolen moments of respite during sex. Even then, this was not momentary fatigue wearing Russia down, but something else entirely. At a loss, America haltingly laid his hand down against Russia's bicep for want of a better resting place. Russia didn't seem to mind.

"You don't usually smoke."

America was beginning to feel like he fell into an episode of the Twilight Zone; it would explain a lot, really. "Just felt like a good idea, s'all."

"Ah," Russia murmured, as if that was the most interesting part of whatever it was they are doing now. And then, before America point out how weird everything suddenly turned, he spoke. "I am sorry."

America blinked rapidly in confusion, off kilter, but the balance was still there and that was the important thing. It his move now. "Sorry for what?"

"For ruining last night."

The kneejerk reaction welled up so fast, America nearly barked his next words out. "You didn't ruin anything." Russia jerked—in surprise or something else? America wasn't sure—and glanced upward to him. "Don't feel sorry for what happened. What happened _happened_; that's all there is to it. You didn't do anything wrong. You just had a bad reaction—like a food allergy."

Russia snorted and glanced back downward, but a blush stained his cheeks. "I am not a child, America. Don't presume to… baby me."

In spite of the words, America has to smile. Finally, _there_ was the Russia he knew. Taking a small risk of annoying Russia, he raised his hand up and ruffled the ashy hair splayed across his leg. "But I want to. I like doing nice things to you." He paused and went on, carefully tucking back a lock of hair so he could see Russia's eyes better. "That's why I wanted to do that last night."

That Twilight Zone feeling came back again when instead of retorting, Russia merely blushed brighter and quickly turned his head away, hiding his face against America's leg. It did little to hide the blush considering that now America could feel the warmth on his leg. He cleared his throat and dropped his half used cigarette into the ashtray. "…you don't have to do those things for me."

America sighed, blowing smoke out his nostrils before stubbing the butt out into the ashtray as well. "It's not that I had to do it. I wanted to—but if you don't want me to, that's fine. Don't worry about it."

Russia fell quiet again, shoulders hunched up even as America soothed and petted his hair until at last he nodded. Tension slowly leaked out of his shoulders, America's hands flickered down to rub away any remnants that tried to cling. The air grew less heavy while the sun climbed higher even as America lit up another cigarette and Russia began to nap in his lap.

Whatever happened last night, America was mostly certain they'd gotten past the worst of it, for then at least. He didn't get what he wanted, but that would be okay too. Compromise.

_Besides_, he thought, gently stroking Russia's hair again as he mouthed something against his leg. _There's other ways to have fun without being on top._ But he'd keep that to himself for now. Right now, all he wanted was his lover to relax and rest all he needed. Fun could be had later.

Taking another drag, America smiled and tilted his head to the side so the sun could warm his face.


End file.
